


I Will Try To Fix You

by Wordsareart



Category: Doctor Who, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock - Fandom, Supernatural, X-Men
Genre: Abused Amelia Pond, Abused Anna Novak, Abused Castiel Novak, Abused Charles Xavier, Abused Dean Winchester, Abused Eric Lehnsherr, Abused Harry Potter, Abused Sam Winchester, Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Extreme Child Abuse, F/F, F/M, Friendship/Love, Heavy Angst, M/M, Magic, Mental Health Issues, Mutant, Original Characters - Freeform, Other, Physical Abuse, Recovery, Sexual Abuse, Trust, explicit - Freeform, hospitalised, muggle, multi-fandom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-05-24 04:44:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6141892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordsareart/pseuds/Wordsareart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After one of the worst recorded cases of child abuse shocks the world, a new institution is built to seek out the abused children of society and bring them into a home built to specialise in their care. </p><p>Harry Potter couldn't remember the feeling of kindness;</p><p>Six young mutants fight for their lives against discrimination;</p><p>Sherlock Holmes is an autistic boy whose locked in his own head;</p><p>Amelia Pond was left alone in her aunt’s summer house for months;</p><p>Dean Winchester only ever learnt to look after his brother, nothing else matters; </p><p>Together, can they heal their wounds, and band together to fight the evil of this world?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During his daily session in Cerebro, Charles Xavier sees a dying boy calling out to him. Can he reach him in time?

Charles Xavier sat beneath the window of his study. The sun beat down upon the overgrown woods, where several students had decided to stow away to escape their afternoon lessons. He felt their glee as they clambered through the undergrowth, which was becoming increasingly thicker. Storm had already come to see him about them, and when he told her that he was fully aware of where their students were, and that they were in no danger, she had left to return to her class.

  That was the atmosphere of the Xavier institute; if you don’t wish to come to lessons, don’t come to lessons. Professor Xavier saw no point in trying to teach children whom did not want to learn, so he let them be. This way, the students learnt much more as there was barely any interruptions, and created a positive association to the classes themselves.

 _If only things had been that way when he had been at school,_ Charles pondered _, he may have gone if they had._

  He checked his watch. It read five to four. He would be just in time. Someone had to look after the world. Rotating his chair away from the tranquil scene at the window, he sped down the hallway, peering into the odd class as he passed by. It always made him happy to see his pupils smiling.

  Reaching a portrait of some distant relative, he slid his fingers beneath the frame until he heard the familiar tick and pop, before the painting retracted into the wall, and the steel-plated corridor came into view.

  Making his way towards the porthole-like door, Charles already felt the pull on his mind, a ringing in his ears which only grew louder as he approached.

  The door was locked tight as it always was, the corridor echoed only the buzz of his wheelchair as it always did, and Cerebro sat where it always did, lights flashing, helmet resting upon the main console, as it always had.

  But something was wrong. The professor could feel it.

  Speeding down the narrow platform with a rush he had never felt before, he thrust the metallic helmet onto his head, closed his eyes, and listened to the whims of the world. The anticipated waves of voices ricocheted around his mind, billions of people chattered inside of his skull, each with their own hardships, hope and dreams.

  But through all of the chaos, Charles felt a presence. He had not felt one for years, not since his encounter with a Miss Emma Frost. But it was there, calling out to him. Opening his eyes, he focused solely on the boy, for a boy it was. Travelling through the sub-consciousness of the Earth, Charles’ mind was drawn closer and closer until he was hit with the utter sense of fear, pain and desperation of the child.

  A similar madness gripped Professor Xavier as his search became frantic in his borderline hysterical state. 

   _Where are you,_ Charles called out through the mist of thoughts,  _Please, tell me where you are. Call with your mind._

After the longest moment of his life, a light appeared through the fog, leading him, pulling him across, towards the blinding light. Suddenly, all the murmurings stopped, and he was seeing out of another pair of eyes.

  He seemed to be in the boy's body, his vision framed by black circles he assumed to be glasses. It took a few moments for the pain to be registered. Red hot, paralyzing agony streamed over his entire body. He tried to scream, but no noise would come out. Then, the man came into focus. A huge, smirking, walrus-like man, wielding a cricket bat and a madness in his eyes, loomed over his helpless body. 

"YOU WORTHLESS FREAK!" The man screamed, cracking the bat down upon his already broken body, "YOU PIECE OF VERMIN!"

 His guttering breaths sent stabs of white-hot agony through his chest and shattered rib-cage. He tried to curl his legs up to protect it, but they wouldn't move. His eyes were the only things which would. He cast them to his surroundings, searching for any sign of hint of where the boy was. But then, a ginger cat appeared by the glass door leading to the garden. It stared right back at him, its eyes almost looked wide as if in shock.

  Charles directed his entire consciousness into the cat, and suddenly, the pain was gone, but his relief quickly turned to horror. The boy was was lying spreadeagled on the floor of a sickeningly pristine kitchen, save for the splatters of blood and what he assumed to be vomit which had sprayed onto the counter. Every limb looked shattered, his chest frantically trying to rise and fall, desperate for the oxygen it wasn't receiving, and almost as soon as he left the boy's body, the child had began to scream; terrible deafening, piercing shrieks of pure agony shot through the air. 

  Panic grasped Charles, as he scanned the kitchen from his perch outside the glass door, until his vision landed on a letter, which looked like a bill, which had been discarded, unread, into a rubbish bin. It read:

 

_To Mr Vernon Dursley_

_Number 4, Privet Drive,_

_Little Winging,_

_Surrey_

_Confidential_

  But suddenly, the boy's screams were cut off, and other voices echoed through his head.

   _"Professor! Professor! Come back!"_

_"Can you here us?"_

_"What's going o- OH MY GOD! CHARLES!"_

Then quite abruptly, the boy, and Vernon Dursley were gone, and he was lying on yet another floor, but thankfully, he knew this one, and the people currently standing around him.

  "Welcome back." smiled a very concerned Ororo Monroe, offering her hand to help him up.

  "I'm fine," Charles assured her and the other staff, "I just-"

  It hit him like a truck.

  "THE BOY!" He yelled, making the others amost jump out of their skins, "STORM GET THE PLANE, GATHER TWO MUTANT AND ONE HUMAN STUDENT, AND GO TO NUMBER FOUR PRIVET DRIVE IN SURREY, ENGLAND. AND HURRY!"

  The bewildered looking Ororo ran out of Cerebro's chamber and out of sight. Charles then rotated round to face the good doctor.

  "Hank, I need you to go with them, and to take as many medical staff with you as you may need for this kind of injury." Charles barked, projecting the image of the boy into his friend's mind.

  Hank eyes widened and he bolted down the corridor after Ororo.

  "Charles, what's goin' on?" Asked Logan, who was uncharacteristically flustered.

  "We have another case. Let's just hope we've got there in time..."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'd really appreciate any feedback or suggestions in the comments!


	2. The Boy Under The Stairs

The boy lay on the floor of his cupboard. Dust flickered across a stream of lights which fell upon him, seeping through the solitary crack in the door. He had no idea how long he had been there, but the thumping of heavy footsteps which echoed through the rest of the house had stopped some time ago, and now the silence was suffocating him.

He couldn’t move, but strangely didn’t feel any pain. The shock and adrenaline which still ran through his veins saw to that. He didn’t feel anything, except for the ray of warmth seeping across his forehead, and his lightning scar.

But Harry Potter knew he was dying. He could feel his breaths become shallower; vision become blurred; and his heart slowing to a faint drumming against his shattered ribs.

The small boy wished for the tears that had been building up behind his eyes through all those years. But his ability to cry had long since been beaten out of him. He had cried to first time his uncle had taken him to his bedroom when his aunt had gone to visit friends; it hadn’t hurt nearly as much as the beatings but something had broken inside of him, something Harry knew would never return. He had been made to stay there to whole night as punishment, and Harry had never felt pain like that before or even since. When morning finally came, the six year old had made breakfast before curling in on himself in the corner of his uncle’s shed. He never cried again, even in the many nights that followed.

At least now he wouldn’t be in pain anymore. He had made it to nine, and that was an achievement in itself. Maybe he’d go up to heaven, like he had heard aunt Petunia tell Dudley once. He could see his own mother and father again. He wondered whether they had seen what the Dursleys had done to him. Did they care? Had they ever tried to help him? Could they have helped him? Would they still love him after he never fought back against all those things that had been done to him over the years? Or would they see him as a filthy and worthless freak like the Dursleys had.

Harry closed his eyes, and tried to remember their faces. He was sure he had dreamt about them once, but all he could see was a blur of red and black and then a blinding white light, which shocked him back into reality.

Someone was in the hall. Not his aunt or uncle or cousin, they had new voices.

Harry tried to call out, but he could make no sound, and his eyes wouldn’t open. The voices were becoming fainter and fainter until he couldn’t even hear his own heartbeat, and he knew no more.

 

* * *

 

 

Number four, Privet drive was not what Bobby had expected. He didn’t know what exactly he thought it would be like, but definitely not a ridiculously normal suburban house, white-picket fence and all; and a twin to every other semi-detached building in a two mile radius. He knew, he’d woven through them on his borrowed moped. The journey had been made twice as slow by the twenty five stone Dr McCoy who perched awkwardly on its rear. The good doctor had been suspiciously quiet, and wore a distant look across his stoic features that Bobby had never seen before.

It had been a relief to finally reach the house and see Kitty Pryde waiting for him. Jo had apparently already entered as they had arrived early. She walked upto them as the moped was pulled over, creating a satisfying smear over the pristine lawn.

“Have you found him?” Dr McCoy asked.

“No,” sighed a very anxious Kitty, “We searched every room in the house. I found all the cupboards bare and the pictures have been taken off the wall. The place has been ditched.”

“Could the bastard have taken him with them?” Bobby said, turning to where the doctor had stood just moments ago. But Hank McCoy stood on the porch of the house; his ears pricked up suddenly and then he boltd through the open door, quickly followed by the two younger mutants.

“SWEET JESUS!”

The cupboard under the stairs’ door had been ripped open but the desperate doctor, and there was the boy.

Bobby had never seen anything like the state the little boy was in: his skin was stretched so tightly over his body he looked like a skeleton; his arms and left leg lay limp in unnatural positions, the bones protruding out; his oversized clothes were ripped and torn, sprayed with vomit and the blood which seeped out of the numerous cuts and bruises which littered themselves over every visible inch of skin.

Kitty was crying, and the human girl Jo, who had bolted down the stairs froze when she saw the child’s broken body.

“HE’S STILL BREATHING! HE’S STILL BREATHING! WE HAE A HEARTBEAT!” Dr McCoy screamed, making all of them jump ten feet in the air, “KITTY, GET THE JET, FAST! JO, CALL THE PROFESSOR,  TELL HIM WHATS HAPPENED! BOBBY, MY BAG!”

Bobby tore his eyes off the horrific sight and tore across the lawn to the moped, grabbed the duffel bag, tore back to the house. Dr McCoy called to him from the dining room where he had carefully laid the boy out and taken off his shirt and trousers. Bobby tried with all of his might not to look at the true extent of the damage on the tiny boy, and put the bag down on the side counter.

The next fifteen minutes were the longest of Bobby Drake’s life. He handed McCoy what he asked for as quickly as he could, all the while scanning the room desperately for some clue as to who the boy was. There were so many photographs of a smiling happy family on the walls and mantelpiece, but none of them had this kid in them, only a beachball of a boy who was most definetly not him.

When the jet finally arrived, Dr McCoy got Jo and Kitty to carry him on a mattress on the garden bench Bobby had found out back, and as Bobby raced after them, he quickly glanced into the monsterous cupboard. It was as bare as it was small, except for a filthy, bloody towel on its floor, and two words scrawled onto the wall in the squiggly font of children in a read crayon.

**_Harrys room_ **


	3. The Girl Who Waited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is safe from the Dursleys, but will he ever wake up?

Misty Carrolle sat on the squishy armchair she had dragged into Harry Potter's room in the medical wing. Dr McCoy watched her from the doorway, wandering what she was doing there. She had sat for nearly two hours now, unmoving, with that queer look she wore when alone; one of deep thought, he thought.

It had occurred to him to ask her to leave or even have prevented her from going in in the first place. The last thing he wanted to do was scare the boy when he finally woke up with a complete stranger staring at him; especially a stranger with such a striking look as Misty had.

She wasn't a tall girl, and looked incredibly lanky and unnaturally skinny for an eleven year old, though Hank knew she could most probably beat any human student here in a fight, of her age or above. Her face was pale and freckled, with thin scars crisscrossing across her right cheekbone to right ear, the bridge of her nose the left ear, and from there to the corner of her mouth. Paired with her short, wild red hair, Misty Carrolle did look quite the ruffian, but it was the icy blue pupils encircled by sparks of green and gold which stared out from wide-set sockets which made her look all the more frightening. Those eyes were dead, empty, with no happiness or life left in them. Hank often tried to imagine what she may have looked like had she been brought up somewhere else.

And now they were directed at young Mr Potter as he lay, smothered in bandages, plaster casts and wires connecting to various machines that hummed and beeped to each other. He was still unconscious, but alive, which was a huge step forward as far as Hank was concerned, from the lifeless body he had laid on the dining room table.

It had been three days since Dr McCoy had heard the faint, ragged breaths coming from under the stairs. But when the breaths had suddenly stopped after he had broken down the boy’s cupboard door, he had had to restart his heart, but after the longest fifteen minutes of his life, he had finally got a faint pulse.

The next step, after he and his students had got him to the safety of the Xavier institute (taking him to a hospital was too risky), was the find out who he was and, by default, who had done this to him. But two days of searching through school records, hospital admissions, birth records, no one even close to the boy’s description was ever found.

After all of that, it had been young Bobby Drake who had found the boy’s name. 

Bobby had been one of the volunteers who had gone back to Privet Drive to recover what they, and take photographs for the court case that would soon ensue when the boy’s story got out. After only a few hours after the team’s departure to Little Winging, Bobby had burst into his office, breathless, and brandishing what looked to be the most decrepit piece of paper Hank had ever seen. Scrawled over every inch of the originally white, but not yellow-tinged paper were the same words written over and over again.

Min am es ary potr Min am es ary potr mi nam es ary potr Mi nam s arry potr Mi nam s arry potr Min am is ary potr Mi nam is arry Potr Mi nam is arry Potr Mi nam is arry Potr Mi nam is Harry Potr Mi name is hArry Potr Mi name is Harry Potr Mi name is Harry Potr Mi name is Harry Pottr Mi name is Hary Pottr Mi name is Harry Potr My name is Harry Pottr My name is Harry Pottr My name is Harry Pottr My name is Harry Potter My name is Harry Potter My name is Harry Potter My name is Harry Potter My name is Harry Potter MY NAME IS HARRY POTTER My name is Harry Potter My name is Harry Potter 

It near brought tears to the good doctor’s eyes to see how desperately the b- Harry, had tried to teach himself to write. He was obviously a very bright lad to have been able to teach himself at all without any assistance. Bobby had told him that they had found the scrap of paper under the filthy and reeking towel that they had found in the cupboard that the boy must have used as a bed.

That was over a week before Misty Carrolle’s appearance at little Harry Potter’s bedside.

He lay completely still, save for the jittery rising and falling of his bandaged chest. His hair, washed and freed from the filth and matter blood, was revealed to be a sleek, raven black: messy, and stuck up at odd angles. It made a startling contrast to his porcelain white skin, stretched far too thinly across his fragile bones, which would blend seamlessly into the bedsheets had it not been for the spread of purple, blue and black bruises which stained it. Every now and then his features would tense and he would mutter unintelligible words, pleading with an invisible danger. Whenever he did this, Misty would break her inanimate stance and softy run her worn, coarse hands across his forehead and cheek until he relaxed. Then she would, sit back into her rigid position and would continue to watch over him, fixing her eyes on his face. But those eyes were dead, empty, with no happiness or life left in them. 

She had been here for 2 years now, and they hadn’t betrayed the slightest hint of emotion. Sometime the mind could only take so much before it snaps, and Misty Carrolle was a prime example of this. The only one who could reach her was her brother.

Hours passed; Harry never stirred, so neither did Misty.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my friend Xia for her wonderful input and support!


End file.
